Rethinking the War on Terror

CW FISHER. People always take things too far. It's why empires fall: they grow until they topple. Our worst ideas are preserved because great thinkers and poor clutch their own opinions like clubs and turn our human race into a race to be God. But the race is long and littered with the fallen, and just beyond the finish line is the stairwell, ever writhing, alive with undead ideas spawning more. Flying jets into skyscrapers is a bad idea, rotten, and the same goes for wearing a bomb under your clothes and blowing yourself up in a crowded restaurant. These are terrible ideas from which no good can come, yet they're popular ideas, in practice by a growing number of people around the world who have nothing to do with al-Qaeda. Nothing. Ideology isn't necessary for suicide. It's the most personal decision one can make, and the consequences, for the perpetrator, are nil--heaven aside, legacy and fame aside--the only bad that comes of a suicide bombing is all the rest of it: the pain that's indelibly smeared on love ones and hated ones equally, and the undeniable uselessness of suicidal activity that becomes clear the moment the smoke clears. Waging war on terrorism is a bad idea because terrorists don't fight "fair." The larger the army, the greater their disadvantage. Terrorists don't wear uniforms, they don't show up on time on the battlefield, and they certainly don't travel together in well-marked vehicles: they see that as suicide. If an army wanted to "win" a war on terror, it would make sense for them to at least grant themselves equal powers: the power to be invisible, the power to surprise, the power to disappear, deny, cackle, gloat. Armies can't do this because they're led by students of proper warfare, whereas terrorists can deploy themselves without invitation or even much training. Anger's enough. They're implacable: they want only their enemies out, out, out--or so they chant. After 9/11 it wasn't uncommon to hear Americans wonder out loud: Why do they hate us so much? What did we ever do to them? How come some people are cheering in the streets? How could this happen? Will it happen again? Where? When? How? The answers were all there for us to learn correctly, and we might have, if, if, if. But we didn't. We didn't hear them say "get out." Get out? Who would say that? We're not getting out, we said: We're going in! And in we went, and in we stayed, and still they chant: GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! What do they want? Even if the entire U.S.-led occupation forces were to leave Iraq tomorrow, the chant to get out wouldn't change. Because what the Middle East is really saying to the West is: Get Out, All of You. Out of our oil fields, out of our politics, our business, our affairs; get your asses out of our countries you greedy sons and daughters of dollars and take your camera phones and beer swilling orgies and bad music with you. Why do they hate us? Because we own them. Imagine for a moment how it would feel to be owned. If you have a job, or if you are married or divorced, living with your parents or your children, if you have a credit card or a mortgage, you might think you know how it feels to be owned, but, slap yourself, you're way off the mark. To be owned by a largely unseen foreign interest that operates covertly and often against the interests of the people indiginous to the region it owns is to be lied to and robbed, ignored or destroyed as called. Foreign, used here, refers to ideals, not countries. Corporations by nature are foreign insomuchas they are creatures of the state, inhuman by law, made of boards and shareholders, but exactly what the creature does is often a secret even from itself. Now foreign ownership is finding hostile hosts all over the world. Poor Exxon is getting its ass kicked out of Venezuela. That's not how it's supposed to work. And poor Halliburton. This American corporation formerly under the command of current U.S. vice president Dick Cheney was officially charged with the duty to plunder Iraq, restore basic services destroyed by the U.S. where prudent, and rebuild the country with American know-how and aesthetics. Against great hazards, Halliburton continues to do its job, sending in the bravest and brokest independent contractors they can send in as sacrifice, while their few actual employees are spared for the hard part: divvying up Iraq's vast oil wealth among a complicated network of carefully selected buyers. As to the restoring and rebuilding part, that remains on hold. The trouble in Fallujah, you may recall, began when the men who were burned alive in their car by a mob mentioned to a curious passerby that they were surveying this lot for a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Foreign ownership is borderless, ubiquitous and more stealthy than any terrorist organization, and richer, and more powerful. This is what people want out. Even many Americans are beginning to wake up to the fact that its government is owned and operated by the very companies they work for. Governments, their leaders and armies, have become like actors and extras battling across the world stage to distract populations from the more certain truth: they're being robbed. There's only one way to kill terror, and that's to be not afraid. Take courage, it's free. Drop fear; it's a bad chemist. Courage is smarter and wiser than fear, but slower and harder to catch. Fear leaps like fire, courage faces the fire and puts the damn thing out. Cool, clear courage is our most magnificent weapon. The sooner we accept the terrible truth that terrorist attacks will continue until they don't anymore pretty much regardless of what we do or don't do, the sooner we can pay attention to the very thing we're trying our hardest to ignore: the coming revenge of Mother Earth, her accelerated timetable for our exit, and what we plan to do about food and water. And that's all I'm going to say about it, until 2006.

The Marks on Saddam H.

CW FISHER. Battered and bruised, broken but unbowed, Saddam Hussein returned to court bearing a striking resemblance to Tony Orlando after a week off for the holidays and bad behavior. The mother of all trials is a mess, but it's no circus as some have called it, rather a series of sideshows on a turntable starring freaks behind curtains with alien voices that speak the unspeakable. Saddam and seven others are on trial for ordering the deaths of 148 people. Witnesses described how their victims were tortured and killed, some by repeated electrical shocks, others by being doused in molten plastic and skinned alive. Saddam appeared to listen quietly, but bullies often have attention disorders combined with empathy deficits, which could partly explain his reply. "I have been beaten everywhere on my body. The marks are still there." For Saddam H. to share with the group his own story of humiliation and maltreatment takes a rare kind of courage for any dictator, the courage to stand up and be the victim, embracing rather than rejecting his own hurt feelings. It could be a breakthrough moment, or a ruse. The Americans, of course, deny the abuse, but since when isn't a perpetrator in denial? Stumped, the court throws up its hands, bangs the gavel, says see you next week. As of this writing it is unknown whether anyone bothered to check Saddam H.'s body for the marks he alleged, but it would seem prudent. It is a curious detail to omit, the proof. If Saddam had marks, the American brass would have two choices: admit it, or deny it. If they denied it, they wouldn't share the evidence, they wouldn't post his naked pictures all over the Internet. They'd conceal him, send him away awhile to heal up a bit and give the whole thing time to cool down. Of course some scars can't be seen. We all bear inner owies. But this isn't therapy; it's a trial: Saddam's, believe it or not. Yet, this one man, armed only with a singular will to prevail, withdrew his sword and reversed a tsunami. Suddenly it's all about America again. Ever since America lost the PR war because of its own love of gadgetry, lack of supervision, and brutal leadership, it can't seem to do anything right. Source: Mirror.co.uk - News - SADDAM: I'VE BEEN TORTURED

A Pauper's Christmas

CW FISHER I've been rich and I've been poor, and I prefer poverty because it's cheaper and the effect is about the same. A new car and an old car both get you there. The warmth of a coat is not affected by newness. Love, in poverty, is easier to detect: lacking tokens, it's either there or it's not; while love, in wealth, is easily buried in baubles, bribes, toys, taxes, hugs, kisses and the promise of more if you're good. Christmas can be a difficult time for both the rich and the poor, but there's no doubt the rich bear the worst of it, and it all has to do with list length. The very rich have exceedingly long lists on pocket gizmos, while the poor have a short list they can keep in their noodle. The rich have to gift everybody, keep inventory, follow through; the poor just kind of fall together, fill their faces, fall asleep in the second half. The rich have to attend fabulous parties and drink too much and pay the price, while the poor, the barmaids and bartenders, drivers and doormen, the babysitters, will be fondled, overtipped, thrown up on or made to hear slurpy confessions. The poor get entertainment, the rich, regret. I recommend wealth to anyone who hasn't tried it, and poverty for the same reason. Have a wonderful Christmas.

It's beginning to look a lot like X

CW FISHER Hurricanes have names, even boats and hamsters have names, yet the most wonderful time of the year is nameless. It took almost a decade, but we did it. This holiday season that isn't Christmas, Hannukah or Kwanza needs to be something besides "this holiday season." Xmas is out because it's too close to Christmas; it wouldn't be fair without an X-ukah or X-za. So let's go with X. X is simple, memorable, wide-ranging, and inclusive: even an illiterate can spell it. We're already adapted to Xmas... Y not X? It texts excellently. Plus it's already on the calendar! X is Xy. Say it: it's sexy. X may have some bothersome connotations with X-ratings, but nobody remembers X ratings except old people, and nobody listens to old people. Yet imagine all the world's grouchy old people muttering under their breath, X X X X X X X X X ...how long before the homophone takes hold? How long before the rippage of clothes and sweeping of tables that heralds the start of most spontaneous assisted living orgies? I'm all for a holiday season that causes old people to pull trains or make daisy chains as long as it happens in the spirit of X and is completely hidden behind walls of lead with doors that remain locked until all danger has passed, and as long as it's something that nobody ever, ever, talks about. So! We're going with X. Very well then. Consider this your first X card ever.

Slaughter for the Gods

CW FISHER We live in an unjust world of unequal enemies, where friends, family and co-workers easily betray one other to spare themselves the fate of the one they hand over. We betray each other because we're afraid. We're afraid because we know damn well that the gods are real, and they must be appeased. The gods are all around us. Bosses, spouses, parents, children. The gods are cops, judges, government employees, elected officials, lap dancers, bouncers: all gods. The driver of the other car is a god. The lady that slapped you in the face with broccoli because she said you cut in line -- she's a god. The gods are everywhere. You got to look out. Because the gods have power. And naturally they enjoy using it. We worship those above us because we are not stupid. It is from them that we receive our crumbs. If we complain about the weight of the god that straddles our shoulders, or if we suggest better crumbs, the god may simply choose a less noisy sofa, putting us in the position of having to find a new god to obey and adore and flatter and pet, someone whose pan we're allowed to lick. It would all be pathetic if the gods didn't have gods. But they do. All the gods have gods of their own. And every mortal has lots of shots at godhood, even if only to torture a younger brother, or, lacking that, ants. This is our true spiritual condition as manifested in our daily lives. Obedience to the gods is the rope of all human societies. "God," the mascot of churches, has little or nothing to do with it, living as he does in the furthest outreaches of the human heart where "love" is said to live. In God's house we pay lip service and make a small donation and leave understanding we're better than you for reasons you'd understand if you loved God like we do, which puffs us up for the week ahead, blowing the gods for money and mercy. Mortality always makes mortals feel puny. But no mortal putrifies so poorly as the one that once was a god, for the once gods go slowly, and knowing the game, they may scream out the rules, but they're drowned out by laughter, piss streams and shovels of dirt. Gods go more quietly, with hymns, with tears, then shovels of dirt. God takes them all back; lonely, makes more.